


Identity Withheld

by morelenmir



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Double Entendre, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, They flirt like Adlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morelenmir/pseuds/morelenmir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anatoly Sidorov doesn't see the American agent very often, but he never forgets when he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identity Withheld

**Author's Note:**

> [CalmDownPickle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/calmdownpickle) and I noted Sidorov and Ethan would have a relationship similar to Irene and Sherlock and this happened.

His phone rang and vibrated simultaneously whenever he got a text. Not on or the other, always both. With an uncharitable grumble, Sidorov hunted for the slender mobile, locating it inside a cold case folder. He didn't recall putting it there, nor leaving the remains of his sandwich from lunch underneath the folder.

_Identity Withheld_

He very nearly snorted aloud. No such thing in his line of work. Sidorov unlocked the mobile with the swipe of his thumb over the touchscreen.

_Gusto de Marruecos, 2030._

One eyebrow smacked into his distant hairline. "American," he said under his breath. Hunching slightly in the ergonomic swivel chair that squeaked every single time he moved, he jabbed at the small screen.

_I am busy._

A reply came seconds later. Sidorov silenced the mobile with an annoyed grunt.

_Casa del Amor, 2100._

_Work_ , he replied.

_Your wife will be there in the morning._

Sidorov almost laughed. The skin around his eyes pinched in humour, though. That was enough of an outward display.

_I am not hungry._

He stood, tapping "send", and tugged his leather jacket off the chair's back. Shrugging it on, he glanced at the screen when the next text came in.

_Neither am I._

Leaning over the desk, he turned off the lamp, which needed its bulb replaced anyway. The cases were stacked methodically, perhaps a little quicker than usual, and locked away in the dense filing cabinet with sticky drawers. Sidorov was out of the building in four minutes and in his car, turning on the GPS. At least that worked well. He entered destination: Casa de Marruecos and wasn't surprised to see that the projected arrival time had him there at 2040. The American was good.

The mobile buzzed and shrieked at him. He really needed to change that.

_See you soon, Anatoly._


End file.
